Chocolate Chocolate Moons (6 page)

8

D
REW OPENS THE
door wearing casual beige clothes that complement the room’s large, white, open space, sand-colored floor and carefully arranged furniture. He runs his eye over Rocket’s bright ultramarine blue jacket and thinks the only way it would look good is framed and hung on a wall as a piece of period kitsch.

“I can’t believe you want to see my Giacometti, Rocket. I could have hologrammed an image. You must have another agenda.”

“Whaddaya mean? I love art. I won a kid’s art contest by cutting an ear off my Mickey Mouse doll. My teacher said it was very avantgo and renamed it Vincent Mouse.”

Drew says nothing. His jaw clenches. They walk across the room toward the sculpture.

Drew points. “Well, that’s what you’ve come to see. Don’t you think it’s beautiful?”

Rocket peers at the Giacometti. His hand slides over the veined gray marble table it stands on. “Guess everyone’s sense of beauty is different. I would never bother with this stuff if I had Kandy. She’s what I call a work of art. Of course, you can’t sell her at auction. But I bet you would for a million solars?” His thin crescent eyebrows rise.

Drew is not amused. He walks toward two pale sofas placed diagonally next to a wide picture window. Rocket eyes an expensive antique chess set. He fingers translucent silver mesh curtains that filter the light from River Area below.

Drew sits on the right sofa. Rocket sits on the left.

Rocket says, “Nice view. What’s with all the gray and beige? You should brighten the place up a bit.” He takes off his purple polka-dot neck scarf and drapes it over the back of the sofa. “There you go. Nothing like the color purple to give things a boost. Gonna offer me a drink?”

Drew sighs. “What would you like, Rocket?”

“A scotch sour would be nice, but only if you have Johnny’s Walker. But of course you must. You’re a first-class kind of guy, aren’t you?”

Drew studies the keypad on the sofa and codes scotch sour. He adds a mineral water for himself. Almost instantly a shiny service-bot wheels out the drinks. Rocket takes his scotch off the tray. “That service-bot must have cost plenty. Mine only vacuums and scratches my back.”

Rocket reaches into his right pocket and takes out several pills. Then he reaches into his left pocket and takes out several more.

“What are those?” Drew asks.

“Liver protonics and multiminerals from Mercury. Very expensive.”

Drew shakes his head. “You take too much of that stuff. One day you’ll make yourself sick.”

Rocket frowns. “Since when are you an authority? You live on Freedom Plan foods. This is good stuff; it’s health food, strictly natural.” He pops them into his mouth and swallows. He leans toward Drew. “How’s the testing on the anti-flavonoid going at Congress Drugs? Sandy Andreas must be getting a little tired of waiting for Congress Drugs to finish the testing on his latest miracle medicine.”

“How do you know about that? It’s top secret! We just tested it on a few animals.”

Rocket’s mouth opens like a viper. “I have my sources.”

“Well, it’s stalled. We can’t get approval to test it on human subjects because the animals fell into comas.”

“Did the animals die?”

“No, but they don’t know how to get them out of the comas.”

“Didn’t die! Then it’s no problem!”

Drew unbuttons his shirt collar and frowns. “What’s no problem?”

“Everyone’s overreacting.” Rocket takes a Bourbon Berry from a silver dish on the kidney-shaped coffee table in front of him. He pops it into his mouth. Then he gets up and walks toward the Giacometti, patting it on the head. “How much did you say you paid for this thing?”

Drew doesn’t answer. Rocket circles silently back to the sofa and sits.

“I want to do a favor for some of my friends,” Rocket says quietly. He takes another berry. Sucks out the liquor with a
whoosh.
Before Drew can react, Rocket reaches for another and slurps it in. “Interested?”

“It depends.”

Rocket’s voice rises. “It
depends
is not the correct answer. You owe me a lot of money.”

Drew says nothing.

“Congress Drugs’ stock has been hitting the Milky Way ever since people heard rumors that it developed a new anti-flavonoid that lowers cholesterol and blood pressure even if you eat your weight in mascarpone cheese. What do you think would happen to the stock if the public discovered there might be questionable side effects to the anti-flavonoid? What do you think would happen if the Food and Drug Administration doesn’t approve it?”

“But it may not affect people, only animals. I just told you we haven’t done any tests on human subjects. There’s always some delay.”

“I’ll tell you what this overpriced, begging-for-a-correction stock would do. It would drop into a gravity vortex. Such information could help some of my friends know the right time to sell a few fat companies short.”

Drew gets up, crosses the room, and increases the airflow. The light on the front door blinks red. Then green. It opens. An auto voice says, “Kandy Kane entering.” Kandy steps through the doorway carrying bags and boxes. She drops one, picks it up, and puts it on a table near the door. “I didn’t know you were coming, Rocket. Sorry, I can’t stay.” She flips her long brown hair, blows two kisses, and leaves.

“Expensive girlfriend. Expensive lifestyle. Be a shame to lose it. Wouldn’t take Kandy long to find someone else.” Rocket cracks a knuckle. Drew winces. Rocket smiles and says, “I think I have a way to test these anti-flavonoids on humans. Got the idea when I heard the news about people getting sick from eating Tootsie Targets made at Candy Universe.”

“Were you responsible for that, Rocket?”

Rocket holds up his hands. “Hey, no way. I love Tootsie Targets. Ya know, I’m not responsible for every piece of bad news. But when I heard about the trouble with Tootsie Targets, it gave me the idea about testing the anti-flavonoids using Chocolate Moons.”

Drew crosses his arms. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t need to know details. Just get me a small amount of the anti-flavonoid and I’ll take care of the rest. If the stocks take the kind of hit I just explained, I’ll erase your debt plus give you 10 percent of what I make selling short. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime! What have you got to lose? You’re already taking a long walk with a short air hose in a vacuum tunnel.”

Drew’s eyes widen.

“Otherwise,” Rocket says in a soft lethal tone, “I can call some of my associates in the collection business and you can donate a body part to a sick person. But wouldn’t it be better to pay off your gambling debts and have some extra money to buy another ugly skinny sculpture?”

Drew’s expression is blank, but he knows he’s trapped.

“By the way, if you ever want to store any of your art, I know a cool chick named Scheherazade who runs the ABC.”

“The ABC?”

“Ali Baba Caves. Best storage facility in the solar system and its right here, halfway between New Chicago and Pharaoh City.”

“Never heard of it.”

“She doesn’t advertise; besides it’s underground. She also has an art factory that makes repairs on fine art, creates duplicates, that sort of thing. Seeing her day after tomorrow.”

“I don’t trade in duplicates, Rocket. Frankly, I’m insulted.”

“Really? Well, you might like to know that some of her stuff is worth more than the originals. Even the experts at Park Bengay can be fooled.” Rocket walks toward the Giacometti and curls his fingers around it. “Why don’t I take this as a down payment and lock it up at the ABC? I can always have Scheherazade make you a copy.”

Drew yanks the Giacometti from his grip. “I’m not letting any of my art out of my sight.”

“Okay. But make it fast. Patience isn’t one of my virtues.”

9

P
LUTO
P
ASTRAMI IS
a contractor, as with a gun not a hammer, for several postmodern mafia families. He has an average build, medium-length brown hair, and brown eyes. He looks like a neighbor you’d have no interest in getting to know. It took him a long time to perfect “average.” It is one of his most intricate and expensive disguises.

Pluto’s talent to disappear in plain sight is so good, even his rich cousin, Solaria Pastrami Andreas, who is also CEO Sandy Andreas’ wife, can’t recognize him when he’s “in costume.” That is, unless he forgets to use his vocal adaptor. Then, his distinct nasal tone seems to float up from deep underwater and becomes a giveaway.

Pluto lives with saucer-eyed, perky-looking, former stewardess Breezy Point in New Chicago. They met on a space bus that did the Jupiter and Beyond run.

“You look so perky,” he said the first time they met.

“Don’t you mean
pretty
?” she asked, as she always did when people said
perky. “Perky
is so superficial.” Then she shook her hoop-shaped earrings dangling from her pink shell ears and blew him a kiss from her bow-shaped mouth.

Breezy is complex. She craves thrills, adventure, and interplanetary travel, albeit with health insurance, a pension, and a thousand-year contract for cryogenic freezing upon death. She never even batted an eye when Pluto said, “That combination is oxymoronic. If you want safety, you can’t take risks.”

“Says who? Since when are you an expert? I do oxycodone all the time.”

When Pluto first asked her to assist him in a job, she tilted her heart-shaped face and chirped, “You’re kidding, right?”

“But sweetheart, it’s an emergency. Besides you’re the only one I can trust.”

“Really?” She batted her eyelashes and immediately reached for a tube of her brightest red lipstick, a well proven line of defense in all emergencies.

“And they’re going to pay me a lot of money.”

“Well, why didn’t you say that in the first place?” said Breezy applying the lipstick and placing the tube in her cleavage. “Ready when you are.”

Pluto and Breezy tracked their suspect then circled around until he was cornered. Then Breezy, wearing one of Pluto’s superhero costumes and feeling the wrath that hath no fury, squared her jaw, raised her arm, and gave him a wallop. There was a loud
ding!
followed by a louder
dong!
from two metal plates inside his head. And although not a music lover as such, Breezy thought it was the music of the spheres.

I must be experiencing a spiritual climax like satori,
thought Breezy, whose only basis for comparison was the very spirited feeling she got after drinking a triple apple mojito with a rim of powdered cinnamon at the Zen Bar. Dizzy with the sensation and feeling like she had yanked a tablecloth from a table without upsetting the china, and not wanting to overlook anything related to having a climax, instantly decided to pack her bags and move in with Pluto.

Pluto returns from a job exhausted. He runs the shower and feels the water. Too hot. He adjusts it and steps inside. He washes the blond rinse out of his hair, lets his temporary green contact lenses float away, and watches an expensive blue airbrushed tan that was popular on Titan, the last place he had a job, circle the drain. He lets the warm breezes blow over his body in the dry cycle while he is sprayed with grass scented moisturizers and powders. Just when he closes his eyes and relaxes, the holo rings in the next room. He jerks to attention, shifting his head so quickly he almost pokes himself in the eye.

“It’s for you,” Breezy calls into the bathroom, noting the private-caller code. She kicks off her gold genie shoes with the curled-up toes and pushes them under the bed. Then she crosses the room and picks up a brush from a table and runs it through her long blond hair. She reaches for a bottle of Menthe, an expensive scent that causes heightened sexual pleasure named after Menthe, the young nymph with whom Pluto the Greek god of the underworld had had a passionate fling.

Pluto comes out with a towel draped around him and sits on the edge of the bed. Breezy hands him the holo and plops down next to him so she can hear.

Pluto says, “You have a job for me?” Pause. “Where?” Pause. “You’re kidding.” He throws his head back and laughs. “Breezy has been after me to take her there forever. At last, business and pleasure.”